Monsieur Elbel
Samba made no resistance when Nando lifted him and carried him to the
centre of the clearing. He moaned once or twice as the Baenga pressed
his wounded arm, and almost fainted when he was laid on the ground
before Mr. Martindale. But a sip from the traveller's flask revived
him, and he smiled.
"That's better," said Mr. Martindale. "Poor boy! He looks half
starved. Have you any food about you, Nando?"
"No, sah: get some one time."[1]
He went off into the thicket, and soon returned with a couple of
scorched bananas. These Samba devoured ravenously.
"Now I wonder if he could tell us all about it?" said Mr. Martindale.
"Ask him, Nando."
Samba told his story. His dialect was different from Nando's, but
there is a freemasonry of speech among the tribes of the Congo, and
Nando understood. It was not so easy for the others to get at the
meaning of Nando's strange jargon as he interpreted, but they listened
patiently, and missed little of the narrative. Mr. Martindale sat on
an upturned pot, Jack and Barney on charred logs. Nando squatted
beside Samba on the ground, and Pat thrust his muzzle contentedly
between the boy's knees and seemed to sleep.
[Illustration: The finding of Samba]
One night, when the moon was at the full, a messenger had come into
Banonga village. The time was at hand when the agent of Bula Matadi
would attend to collect the tax--the weight of rubber exacted by the
Congo State from every able-bodied man. The messenger reminded the
chief that Banonga had several times been in default. Only a few men
had hitherto been punished, only a few women carried away as hostages
for the diligence of their husbands. But the patience of Bula Matadi
was exhausted. If on this occasion the due measure of rubber was not
forthcoming, the anger of Bula Matadi would blaze, the soldiers would
come, and the men of Banonga would have cause to rue their idleness.
The chief listened in silence. He was old; his body was bowed, his
spirit broken. Life in Banonga was no longer the same since the white
man came. All the joy of life was gone; the people spent their days in
unremitting toil, endeavouring to satisfy the cry of their rulers for
rubber, always rubber, more rubber. When the messenger arrived the men
were away hunting for rubber, but Mirambo knew that, were they doubled
in number, they could not gather the quantity required. The vines in
their district were exhausted; the men had not been taught how to tap
them; they destroyed as they went, and now the whole district around
Banonga would not yield half of what was demanded of them. The poor
old chief trembled when he thought of the woe that was coming to
Banonga, for he now knew from the fate of other villages on the river
what the messenger of Bula Matadi foreshadowed. Unless his men could
achieve the impossible, find rubber where there was none, the blow
would fall. And when it fell Banonga would be no more. The village a
little while ago so happy and prosperous would be destroyed, its people
killed or scattered. So it had happened to other villages: how could
he hope that Banonga would be spared? The messenger indeed had spoken
of the leniency of Bula Matadi, but the chief might have reminded him
of the outrages the people had suffered; of the rapacity, the ruthless
brutalities, of the forest guards. But he said no word of provocation;
only, when the man had gone, Samba heard him mutter the terrible
sentence now too often on his lips: "Botofe bo le iwa: rubber is death!"
The day came: the agent of Bula Matadi appeared, with an armed escort.
The men of Banonga had not returned. They came dropping in by ones and
twos and threes, worn out with their long quest. The rubber was
weighed: in many cases it was short; excuses were rejected, entreaties
scoffed at. The hapless victims suffered taunts, abuse, the terrible
whip. One, less enduring than the rest, resisted. This was the
signal. A dozen rifles were raised--a dozen shots rang out, strong
forms lay writhing in the agony of death. A brief, sharp struggle;
another fusillade; and the terrified survivors, men, women and
children, fled helter-skelter to the forest, pursued by the shots of
the soldiery, ruthless of age or sex. A raid was made upon their
deserted huts: everything that had value for the native levies was
seized; then the match was applied, and soon what had once been a
prosperous happy village was a heap of smouldering ruins.
Samba saw it all. He remained dauntless by his grandfather's side
until a bullet put an end to the old chief's life; then he too fled
into the forest, to find his father and mother, his brothers and
sisters. But he had delayed too long; one of the sentinels fired at
him as he ran: his left arm was struck. He struggled on, but his
friends were now out of reach: he could not find them. For several
days he wandered about, supporting his life on roots and herbs in the
vain search for his people. Then, growing hourly weaker, he crept back
to his village, hoping that by and by the survivors would return to
their desolated homes, to rebuild their huts, and sow new crops. But
none came. He was alone! And he had lain down among the trees--as he
thought, to die.
"Poor little fellow!" said Mr. Martindale. "How old is he, Nando?"
"He say ten three years, sah," replied Nando after consulting the boy.
"Thirteen. He looks older. This is a pretty kettle of fish. What can
we do with him?"
"We must take him with us, uncle!" said Jack.
"Take him with us, indeed! What can we do with him? We can't hunt for
his father and mother: he'd be of no use to us in our job. He wants
doctoring: he might die on our hands."
"I learnt a little doctoring in the hospital, sorr," said Barney.
"Sure I think I could mend his arm."
"Well, well, Nando and the other man had better bring him along to the
canoe--gently, you know. Don't make him squeal."
The two negroes lifted the boy, and the party set off to return to the
river.
"A fine responsibility you have let me in for, Jack," said Mr.
Martindale as they went along. "I've no notion of a Crusoe and Friday
relationship."
"Why not say Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, uncle?"
"A man of my girth!" said Mr. Martindale, chuckling. "But joking
apart, Jack, this is a serious business. What am I to do with the boy,
supposing he gets better? I am not a philanthropist; I can't start a
boys' home; and the little chap will be of no use to us in our proper
work. For the life of me I don't see daylight through this."
"We may find him useful in other ways, uncle. Besides, we may come
across his people."
"And we may not--we may not, Jack. Still, have your way; only remember
he's your protege; I wash my hands of him. And mind you, I'm not going
to start a crusade. There's been terrible work in this village: no
mistake about it; but I'm not convinced it's the doing of white men: in
fact, I refuse to believe it."
"But they're responsible. They shouldn't employ natives who are so
blackguardly."
"That's where it is, you see. You Britishers employed Red Indians in
our war of Independence, didn't you?"
"Yes, and Lord Chatham thundered against it, and it was put a stop to."
"They taught you history at Rugby, did they? Glad to hear it. Well, I
dare say Leopold will put a stop to it if representations are made to
him. It's none of my business, but I'll mention the matter when I get
back to Boma. Now, Sambo----"
"Samba, uncle."
"Bo or ba, it's all the same. You'll have to be a good boy, Samba.
But what's the good of talking! He can't understand what I say.
Doesn't know good from bad, I warrant. Well, well!"
They reached the canoe and laid Samba gently down upon rugs. The rude
craft was soon under way. For a time Samba lay asleep, with his arm
about Pat's neck; but by and by, when the paddlers paused in the song
with which they accompanied their strokes, the boy awoke, and began to
sing himself, in a low musical voice that struck pleasantly upon the
ear after the rougher tones of the men.
"Bauro lofundo! (he sang); bauro lofundo! Bompasu la Liwanga bao
lindela ud' okunda ilaka nkos'i koka."
This he repeated again and again until he was tired and slept once more.
"Very pretty," said Mr. Martindale. "The boy'd make a fortune in New
York, Jack. But what does it all mean, anyway?"
"Berrah nice song, sah," said Nando. "Me tell all 'bout it. People of
Bauro, sah, plenty bad lot. Bompasu and Liwanga been and gone after
'long 'long into de forest, not come back till parrots one two free
twenty all dah."
"Well, I can't make much of that. Doesn't seem to have any more sense
than the songs that our gals sing at home."
But further inquiry brought out the story. It appeared that a rubber
collector, not satisfied with exacting from the people of Bauro the
usual quantity of rubber, had required them to furnish him by a certain
day with twenty young parrots which he wished to take with him to
Europe. Being unable to obtain so large a number by the given date,
the people were declared to be surpassingly obstinate and wicked, and
the sentries Bompasu and Liwanga were let loose upon them until the
twenty parrots were delivered.
"Humph!" grunted Mr. Martindale. "Say, wasn't it Macaulay who said
he'd write a nation's history from its ballads? Rubber and parrots;
what next, I wonder? These Congo people have original ideas in
taxation."
"Begorra, sorr," said Barney, "and don't I wish the taxes in the ould
counthry were uv the same kind. Sure and ivery man in the counthry
would be glad to supply the collectors wid scores uv sparrows or
peewits or any other fowl, and murphies and blackthorns--ivery mortal
thing but money, sorr."
In the course of a few hours the stream they had hitherto been
navigating ran into a larger tributary of the Congo some hundred and
fifty miles above the point where it joined the main river. The canoe
had scarcely entered the broader river when the crew suddenly stopped
paddling, and Nando, turning round with some excitement, said--
"Smoke-boat, sah."
"What?"
"Smoke-boat nebber dis way before, sah."
"A steamer, eh?"
"A launch flying the Congo State flag, uncle--blue with a golden star,"
said Jack, standing up in the canoe and taking a long look ahead.
Nando explained that the rapids, a day's paddling down stream, had
prevented the State officers hitherto from bringing steam launches into
this part of the river. Evidently the vessel now approaching must have
been carried, as a whole or in sections, overland past these rapids--a
work of great difficulty and labour, for the rapids were at least three
miles in length, and the shores were at some parts rocky, at others
covered with dense scrub.
Almost before Nando had finished his explanation the canoe had been put
about, and the men began to paddle hard up stream towards the mouth of
the little river, into which the launch could not follow them.
"Hi, now, Nando, what are you about?" cried Mr. Martindale.
Nando replied that it was always best to avoid the State officials. He
would lie in a creek until the launch was past.
"I don't see why we should run away," said Mr. Martindale. "However,
after what we've just seen, I've no wish to meet them. I might say
something that would lead to a row with the Company."
He lit a cigar and lay back in the canoe. Jack turned flat on his face
and watched the launch. It was soon clear that Nando's plan was
impossible. The launch was a swift one: it came on with increased
speed, and when within hailing distance a voice in French called
peremptorily upon the canoe to stop.
"Nando, stop paddling," said Mr. Martindale, leisurely turning round on
his seat. "Answer their hail, Jack."
"Who are you?" shouted Jack in English.
The foreigner in the bow of the launch was somewhat taken aback. He
had thought to do the questioning, not to be questioned. But he
replied stiffly--
"I am Monsieur Elbel, of de Societe Cosmopolite du Commerce du Congo."
The launch was now within a few yards of the canoe. Monsieur Elbel was
a short thick-set man with reddish hair, and a thick red moustache that
stuck out rigidly a couple of inches on each side of his nose. He wore
a white topee and white trousers, but his coat was blue, with brass
buttons, and gold lace at the shoulders. All but himself on deck were
negroes.
Mr. Martindale ordered the paddlers to bring the canoe round, so that
he might face the Belgian. Then, still seated, he blew out a cloud of
smoke and said--
"Well, I don't know you, Mr. Elbel, and if the work in Banonga yonder
is due to you I don't wish to. Paddle ahead, Nando."
The crew looked somewhat awestruck, but obediently dropped their
paddles into the stream. Monsieur Elbel's cheeks had turned a fiery
red several shades deeper than his hair, and the veins upon his
forehead swelled. The canoe sped past him while he was still
endeavouring to collect himself. Suddenly a tall negro at his side
threw out his hand, exclaiming: "Ok'ok'ok'oka!"[2]
The Belgian looked in the direction pointed out, and the negro followed
up his exclamation with a rapid excited sentence. Monsieur Elbel at
once sent the launch in pursuit of the canoe, ran her alongside, and
cried:
"Halt! I bid you halt. You are rude. I vill run you down if you have
not care. Dat boy I see in your canoe I know him; he belong to my
societe: I demand him to be given up."
"Not so fast, Mr. Elbel. I treat men as they treat me. You have no
right to stop me. I am an American, a citizen of the United States,
travelling in the Free State, which I believe, is open to all the
world. Besides, I have a patent from your company. I propose to
continue my journey."
"But--but--I tell you, dat boy is not American: he is subject of Congo
State, in concession of my societe; still vunce, I demand him."
"Sorry I can't oblige you. The boy is in my service: he has been
wounded--perhaps you know how; nothing but an order from the Free State
courts will compel me to give him up. And even then I won't, knowing
what I know. That's flat, Mr. Elbel. You stop me at your risk. Go
ahead, Nando."
The negroes dug their paddles into the water, and the canoe darted past
the side of the launch. Monsieur Elbel bit his moustache and savagely
tugged its ends; then, completely losing control of his temper, he
shouted--
"You hear; I varn you. You act illegal; you come to seek for gold; dat
is your business: it is not your business to meddle yourself viz de
natif. I report you!"
The launch snorted away up stream, the canoe continued its journey at a
moderate pace, and each was soon out of sight of the other.
For some minutes Mr. Martindale seemed preoccupied.
"What is it, uncle?" asked Jack after a time.
"I was thinking over what that fellow Elbel said. He knows more about
our business here than I quite like. Of course they all know we're
after minerals, but Barnard's find is not the dead secret he thought it
was. Or say, Jack, d'you think we are being watched?"
"Perhaps he was fishing?"
"I don't think so, for he didn't wait for an answer. However, we
needn't meet our difficulties half-way. Anyhow, 'twill do Mr. Elbel no
harm to know that we don't care a red cent for him or any other Congo
man. I suppose he's in charge of this section. But what on earth did
the fellow want with the boy?"
Nando, without ceasing to ply his paddle, turned his head and spoke
over his shoulder to Samba, now wide awake.
"Samba say him uncle dah, sah: uncle Boloko, plenty bad man."
"A wicked uncle, eh?"
"He berrah angry, sah, 'cos Samba him fader hab got plenty more wives,
sah; must be chief some day. Boloko he want to be chief: berrah well:
Banonga men all say 'Lako! lako!'[3] plenty loud. Boloko berrah much
angry: go to white men: tell berrah bad fings 'bout Banonga men. Samba
say Banonga men lib for cut off Boloko his head if catch him."
"Wigs on the green, Jack. Then I guess this Boloko fellow wanted to
get in first. Well, it doesn't raise my opinion of Mr. Elbel; you know
a man by the company he keeps, eh?"
"And the Company by him, uncle."
[1] Immediately.
[2] Exclamation of surprise.
[3] Exclamation of refusal.